Light of Death
by StellaPen
Summary: In all the death brought by the barricade, two people managed to survive - a saddened drunk and an unforgiving spy. Can they manage to put aside their differences long enough to rescue each other from further harm? Chapter two up, non-slash.
1. If I Die, I Die With You

June 6, 1832, Rue de la Chanvrerie, Paris  
  
It should be noted that in death, life can be found, that in utter desperation can be seen a spark of courage. Unexpected fearlessness is often provoked by fear itself.  
  
This was the situation that the Friends of the ABC now found themselves in. As all around them their comrades fell, and their barricade of the people was torn apart, they fought like lions, with nothing to live for and everything to die for.  
  
Smoke filled the area, and noise was everywhere. As chaos ensued, comprehensiveness was near impossible. The revolutionaries' cries tore through the air like a storm that was close to over. But their thunder continued loudly, and their lightning gave strength to those around them.  
  
There were two, however, who remained clear of this harsh weather. One was a calm man tied to a post, forced to observe the destruction around him, and the other was a tired young man, who observed nothing in his peaceful sleep. These two were ignored by the pertinacious and violent students around them. Those who cannot fight are insignificant in the rising of a new world.  
  
Besides which, the man tied to the post had been warned earlier by an older man that he "would not be forgotten". This strangely silent creature had waited some time for the old man to return, but the ghostly figure never reentered the dark room. And the prisoner had given death no further thought than that. If he would die, he would die. He did not believe in Fate, but he believed that the mortal affairs of men were themselves conclusively decisive. For this reason, he let out only a small cry when a stray bullet pierced his side.  
  
~  
  
The fighting at last over, the remaining National Guards and soldiers scaled the now-destroyed barricade with ease, and quickly searched the tavern behind it. In the first level they found nothing but death. In the bottom level, which could be called the bottom of hope as well, they found the only signs of life. A young soldier stooped down next to the man bound to the post. Glancing up at his commander, he stated quite plainly, "Sir, here is Police Inspector Javert. He appears to be dead."  
  
The commander nodded, acknowledging Javert's death in the same way he would acknowledge the death of an enemy or unknown: a fact to go on record. "What about this one, Sir?" asked another soldier, extending an arm in an attempt to awaken the drunk sleeping in the corner. The man did not budge. The green bottle of absinthe in front of him was empty.  
  
The commander sternly shook his head. "Leave him. He took no part in this."  
  
At that moment there came an angry shout from nearby. In the darkness, radiant life had been found. It came in the form of light shining off a golden hair, and strength emanating from a stature of a god.  
  
Outraged soldiers crowded around this tall man, ignoring the proud spark in his eye. They poked their guns at him, asking with vengeful voices, "Was it really you who killed the Sergeant of Artillery?"  
  
The young man gave a brave and affirmative answer, with an honesty worthy of the divine. The soldiers looked at each other with shocked anger. Such bluntness had not been expected. Their eyes fell upon this blond leader with incredulity. They seemed not to notice as he opened his shirt, exposing his heart for them to pierce. He invited death.  
  
As the soldiers raised their rifles, the leader of the revolution muttered softly, "Vive la republique!" and thus carried the hopes and dreams of the people beyond his own short life and into an existence much greater.  
  
Just after this brave phrase had been issued, eight bullets pinioned this god of a man into the wall, forever implanting him near the ruined barricade. It was the sound of these bullets that awoke the drunk, and provoked a small groan of life from Inspector Javert.  
  
~  
  
Grantaire slowly began to stir, not necessarily wanting to arouse from his drunken stupor. The first sight he came to realize through blurred vision was that of soldiers leaving. So, he was to be left alone to face what he had missed.  
  
As his mind slowly began to clear, he remember the loud and clear voices of his friends.they had gone off to fight their revolution, to spark  
  
an emeute, to die for the Republic, to claim General Lamarque as their own. And all this while he had merely been an unobservant body.  
  
As Grantaire awoke fully, he stumbled out into the street without first bothering to inspect the tavern. He sought the barricade, and there it met him. This monstrous creation of his friends had been torn to merely a pile of rubble. Grantaire sighed. He knew it would come to this.  
  
No hope for change can last too long.  
  
Outside on the street he found all of them, all of those he had spent a great part of his life with, all of those who had tried to implant their values in him, all of those whom he had shared drinks and stories with. Courfeyrac and Combeferre were lying side by side, Jean Prouvaire was reciting a poem of death, and Feuilly, Bahorel, and Boussuet were still ready to strike with their hands on their guns. They were prepared till the last. Even in death, they fought for a new life.  
  
Joly lay farther from the others, separate from this fateful group. The illness that had so worried him was at last cured. And even little Gavroche had been shot down. That gamin had been part of these students' hopes for the future. Now he too slept soundly on the cold street, with stones for his pillow and blood as his blanket.  
  
But Grantaire remembered another, one whom he had not spoken to much but had taken interest in nonetheless. Courfeyrac's friend - Marius Pontmercy. Where was he? Had some angel carried him away from this deathtrap? Grantaire doubted such beings as angels could exist in hells such as this one. In truth, Grantaire doubted that such beings as angels existed. But while all had thought him asleep, Grantaire had watched through his hazy vision as Marius entered the barricade with a terrible look upon his face, and with unyielding severity joined the destruction.  
  
Grantaire merely stood in silence for a moment, staring at the ground, as if waiting for some great change to occur, or for some spirit to awake him from this unthinkable dream. In that one moment, the air stilled with him, the birds stopped their songs, and it was as if the Earth  
  
herself had stopped moving. Grantaire knew nothing but the loss of his friends, and stood under the enormous sky as if under a shadow of darkness.  
  
After this reverie was broken by a sharp jolt in Grantaire's mind, he came to a realization. Marius was not the only one missing from this battlefield. His heart beating anxiously, Grantaire ran back into the tavern where he had first heard the gunfire.  
  
At the doorway it was as if some invisible obstacle blocked his way. Grantaire could not move, would not move, for what he saw before him. He stopped and knelt on the edge of the wooden floor, his face in his hands, and his soul in torment. It has been said that Grantaire stood for nothing in nothing. But there was one guide to his misshapen ways, one truth that he held dear, one belief that he venerated above all else. And now it lay in front of him, helpless, destroyed.  
  
Grantaire crawled slowly on his hands and knees to Enjolras' corpse. Upon first arrival, he dared not touch this exquisite statue, for he feared that some small sensation may awake him from his peaceful sleep. But upon closer examination Grantaire found himself compelled to place a hand upon Enjolras' forehead, feeling the blood that dwelt there. The youthful leader's eyes were open, and he looked upwards, towards the heavens. Even in death he was looking ahead to the future, at what he was sure would be a better world. And in that moment Grantaire knew that Enjolras' did not fear his own death. He had now joined the great martyrs before him, and in death awaited creation.  
  
"So, the immortal Apollo has been slain at last. But his lyre will always be heard. Requiescat in pacem," Grantaire whispered, removing his hand from Enjolras' forehead.  
  
His words were hopeful, but his heart was broken. It is terrible to die without knowing one is loved, but it is unthinkable to fall without knowing one is admired. Grantaire found that he could not cry, for this death brought many more emotions than sadness. However, he could feel great pain at the loss of his hero. Orestes had been separated from Pylades at last, and the Fates had finally had their turn with the former. Mount Olympus would mourn the passing of such a beauty.  
  
Grantaire silently cursed himself for his habit. Had he not passed out from drink, he was sure that he would have stood beside Enjolras, and been accepted by him at last. Instead, Enjolras passed with the only memory of Grantaire being one of disgust. Grantaire was stuck in his mortal existence with the worship of someone whose time on Earth had ended.  
  
In this vigilant trance, Grantaire had slowly become aware of one other life in the room. Passing along a final and absolute parting to Enjolras, he left his god behind, and turned to this other mortal who had called to him. Grantaire's eyes fell upon a wounded man strapped to a post, fallen awkwardly to the floor and still bleeding profusely from his side. He immediately ran to this prisoner. If Enjolras could not be saved, perhaps Grantaire could redeem himself in the dead man's heart by helping this wounded being.  
  
As he had done for Enjolras, Grantaire knelt down beside this man and surveyed his current situation. It came to his mind that if the man was bound, he was most likely a prisoner condemned to death. But Grantaire was intrigued by the fact that all those who had fought had died, and that the one who had watched it with a stern but involved eye had survived, albeit with wounds. This furthered his own belief that only observers such as himself saw society for what it truly was: a wasteful mess of humanity that could not endure its own differences.  
  
This man was obviously still alive, noticeable by slight, restrained movements and low moans, but would not be for long if Grantaire did not find help. Not bothering to search for any form of identification because of the blood that covered this crippled body, Grantaire carefully untied the man and pulled him forward. He was nearly twice Grantaire's size in weight and height, and Grantaire only clumsily was able to support him. "Can you walk?" he asked, wondering if the prisoner was in any condition to speak.  
  
The man gave no answer, and no motion which would help Grantaire carry him. It was almost as if he welcomed death. But Grantaire refused to see another fighter fall today. So he hoisted the tall captive up to his shoulder, and slightly dragged him along.  
  
Grantaire knew that he would be arrested on the charge of revolutionary activities, although he had had no part in them, if we were seen leaving the barricade. So he stepped as secretively as was possible out of  
  
the Corinth and headed for the labyrinth known to all men who knew Paris well: the sewer under the Saint-Denis. 


	2. Turn Your Heart Into Stone

A/N: Ehh, so I finally decided to update this again. I don't know where this is going because this is such a weird concept that I'm pretty sure has never been done before. But I wanted to write more because my friend and I had a Les Mis party last night, where I dressed as Javert and she was Eponine and we watched the concert, and basically, we were total nerds. I was reading all the Grantaire parts again, and still loving the quote where he says he won't go to Enjolras's funeral. Hehe. …Why is my computer beeping at me?!  
  
Disclaimer (which I forgot to do last time): They're all Victor Hugo's and if I randomly quote songs they're Boublil and Shonberg's. It would be nice if I had my own Javert and Grantaire though.   
  
Grantaire was surprised at how easily he had reached the sewers. Outside of the barricade, the National Guard was occupied searching for survivors, and it was common place to see family and friends carrying out the corpses of their loved ones, faces wet with grief. In this way, Grantaire remained inconspicuous. The only thing that ever caught anyone's attention was the fact that the body he carried was almost twice as heavy as he, and he stumbled occasionally.  
  
At the end of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, Grantaire dropped the large man harshly onto the street, eliciting a groan of pain from his passenger. He muttered a winded apology, doubling over to catch his breath. This wasn't going to be easy, but Grantaire would do it. He would justify himself in the eyes of the dead, so that perhaps one day when he too passed on, he would sit beside them, accepted at last.   
  
It was in this bent position that Grantaire heard soldiers pass near him with their first load of bodies. Their voices remained passive, as if they carried cargo, not the shells of human lives. Grantaire observed nonchalantly, as he had always done, noting that he could recognize some of the bloody faces.   
  
Towards the end of the line of marchers, sunlight caught on a flash of golden hair. Grantaire closed his eyes, imagining himself at a funeral. A funeral which, he reminded himself, he had recently promised he wouldn't attend. And by closing his eyes, Grantaire began to shut the door on a chapter of his life that he knew would never reopen. However, he could not stop a tear from escaping when he heard a soldier order that all the unclaimed bodies be burned. The same voice shouted angrily that they were criminals and deserved no better. Grantaire stood, shakily at first, but then with strength. He stood for those who would burn for freedom. Apollo was used to fire. The light of the sun already burned within him, and perhaps a phoenix could still arise from the ashes.   
  
With this moment of hope, Grantaire returned his injured and silent companion to his shoulder, taking large strides towards the sewers, renewed by determination.  
  
~  
  
Inspector Javert groggily opened one eye, only to close it again. Even the slightest movement hurt. He was cold, and he could feel dried blood on him. He knew for certain a few bones were broken, and wondered about others. He also wondered where he was.  
  
It was dark, that much he knew. Dark and damp. And someone was carrying him. The sensation was odd. No one had ever carried him anywhere before. No one had ever had a reason, and he would never have allowed it anyway. Javert believed that when he stopped being able to support himself, he was not fit to live anymore. He strongly followed the survival of the fittest principle. This was precisely why he resented the fact that he had been slung over someone's shoulder, and that someone wasn't being very gentle. But he had no idea why that someone even bothered to care.   
  
He had begun to awaken when he had hit the ground roughly earlier. That was when the cold sunk in. Leaving the protective arms of someone else had left him freezing. And even when he had been picked up again the deadened feeling was still there. And that was how he felt now, numb. There was pain, but he ignored it. Javert felt that he shouldn't be alive anyway, so he let the pain slowly kill him.  
  
However, he could not stop his senses from slowly returning. His eyes understood when he was brought into a dark tunnel, and his ears comprehended distant sounds of dripping water. His nose certainly didn't miss the stink. Even half dead, Paris's toughest inspector was still a perfectionist. He didn't miss any detail that he was awake enough to notice, but he still couldn't recognize the man carrying him.  
  
This man stopped briefly again once inside the dark tunnel, catching another breath. Javert felt himself being propped against a cold, wet, stone wall. The jagged stones dug into his back, cutting his wounds deeper. He struggled to move but was met with only more pain, so remained stoically still. His companion noticed his attempted movements with a sigh of relief.  
  
"I'm going to get you out of here soon, sir. It's probably best not to move. Oh…here, drink this," the shorter man said, voice laden with failing breaths. He pulled something out of his coat and handed it to Javert. It was a bottle of aged of brandy.   
  
Javert moaned, whispering huskily, "Should've let me die." He downed the brandy, and slipped again into the welcome darkness of unconsciousness.  
  
~  
  
Grantaire stopped quite suddenly in his tracks, backing against a wet wall. He accidentally heard his passenger's head hit the wall as well, but at least he was already unconscious. He stood frozen, not daring to move, and feeling his knees automatically lock themselves and begin to fail his body. There were hushed voices ahead.   
  
Grantaire could hear two men conversing, and in the dim yellow light thought he could make out their figures. He inhaled sharply upon noticing one was in the same situation as he, carrying a limp body. But this other carrier was having a much easier time of it. Perhaps this man would help him. But Grantaire dared not risk it at the present moment.   
  
He heard what he hoped was the final exchange, "Now, friend, you've got to get out. This is like the fair, you pay as you leave. You've paid, get out" There was mocking, cynical laughter, and this joker ran off into the murky darkness. The older man, the one with the body, began fumbling with a key and a rope.  
  
Grantaire decided to seize the moment, knowing that he too had a high chance of death within these sewers if he did not receive aid soon. So, with fear and ailing strength leading him on, he rushed forward, dragging the large body with him, and fell harshly through the gate that had just been opened. The other conscious man jumped back in surprise, taking on an immediate defensive stance. "I've given you lot money already, what do you want of me now?" he pleaded in a whisper.  
  
Grantaire shook his head, trying to indicate peace while regaining his strength. He put the body he carried down gently on the shore, checking for a pulse and heartened slightly to find a faint beating. The other man once again jumped in surprise, staring at the unconscious body with an odd expression. He still clung to his passenger, but drew himself up to his full height, taking on a serious tone. "I ask again, what do you want of me?"  
  
Grantaire stood too. "Merely your help. I see, friend, that we are in the same situation. That boy - is he from the barricade?"  
  
The older man nodded, finally lying the body he carried onto the ground. Grantaire widened his eyes. "It's the lawyer…Marius Pontmercy! Is he alive?"  
  
Once again the old man nodded. "Yes, but barely. I need to take him to his relatives' house, but I doubt I can do it alone. What of…what of your friend?" He seemed uncertain at this last statement.  
  
"Oh, sir, he is not my friend. I in fact do not know his identity at all. I found him at the barricade, after all the others had fallen," Grantaire said with a sigh. He added, shifting his gaze downwards. "I would have gone with them if I had been in my right mind."  
  
The old man's eyes gazed, with something perhaps like empathy. "What is your name, young man?"  
  
"They call me Grantaire. Sometimes just 'R'. I don't know…names never seemed to be too important during the revolution. We all had one name to our leader. La Patria," Grantaire muttered, his eyes clouding for a moment.   
  
"And I am Fauchelevent. But let us speak briefly. I will help you with…that man, if you will help me with mine. However, I cannot take care of him for long. Mine will not be the face he shall desire to see when he awakes," the man responded.  
  
Fauchelevent crouched down over the man Grantaire had previously carried, laying a hand on his forehead for a moment. Grantaire thought fleetingly that he was reminded of a saint. Then Fauchelevent hoisted the large body up to his shoulder, with a look that mirrored a mixture of terror and resolve.  
  
Grantaire in turn gathered up Marius, looking in wonder at the man beside him. "Do you know him, M'sieur?"  
  
They had begun to walk. The man didn't respond for a moment, and instead just gazed out to the water. He looked so incredibly tired, and somehow conveyed the feeling that this mission would be the last of his life. But for an old man his strength was nearly ten times that of Grantaire's, and he carried the heavy body with ease. "I…ahh, excuse me. We have met previously, a few times." And the matter was closed. But Fauchelevent continued speaking slowly. "Where do you want me to take this man?"  
  
Grantaire blinked. He had not considered a destination. He had no place that he actually could call home, and could pay for no doctor. But he had often Courfeyrac, and remembered vaguely that at one time Marius had slept there as well. So he directed Fauchelevent to the Hotel de la Porte-Saint-Jacques. He knew the tenant well and was certain he would be allowed into a room.   
  
Before they went to the hotel, however, Grantaire carried Marius, under Fauchelevent's directions, to his grandfather's house. Grantaire stood back, reverting into his noninvolved observant mood, staring silently as the doorkeeper hurried off in a slight panic to find Marius' family. He also noted the look of loving relief upon Fauchelevent's face, and wondered what kind of connection these two families had.   
  
Shortly after this they reached the hotel, once Fauchelevent had seen Marius securely settled in a bed with his family watching over him. Grantaire convinced the tenant to allow him entrance into Courfeyrac's old room, and as she had allowed him entrance many times before, the old woman did not think twice.   
  
Fauchelevent laid the unconscious form down on a thin, broken mattress, taking care not to hurt the man's head. He seemed to flinch once he had situated the body, backing off immediately with a sort of jump. "I must go," he said quickly.  
  
Grantaire took the man's arm for a moment. "Good sir, I would pay you for your efforts, but alas, I have nothing."  
  
Fauchelevent gave a slight smile, already on his way out the creaky door. "I do not save a man's life for profit. That could almost be considered a crime." And he was gone.  
  
Grantaire turned back to gaze upon the unconscious man before him, and after a moment's contemplation began to treat his wounds. He now merely had to wait for this man to awake. 


End file.
